


Sorta Punk Rock

by glorious_spoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, M/M, Pre-Slash, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: “Hi,” Stiles says when he opens the door. He’s wearing last night’s hoodie and jittering with a manic, over-caffeinated kind of energy that sets Derek’s teeth on edge. “So, I think you should have sex with me. I should have sex with you? We should have sex.” He nods, like the phrasing has finally satisfied him, and gives Derek a bright, hopeful smile.





	Sorta Punk Rock

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look, my first TW fic! I don't even know what this is. Takes place sometime early in S3, when Stiles is still trying to take care of that pesky 'virgin' problem.

“Hi,” Stiles says when he opens the door. He’s wearing last night’s hoodie and jittering with a manic, over-caffeinated kind of energy that sets Derek’s teeth on edge. “So, I think you should have sex with me. I should have sex with you? We should have sex.” He nods, like the phrasing has finally satisfied him, and gives Derek a bright, hopeful smile.

Derek heaves a sigh and turns on his heel, heading back into the apartment. He doesn’t bother to slam the door in Stiles’ face, although it’s tempting. That’ll just lead to this conversation happening through the door, at a much higher volume, and he’d really like to be able to look the rest of the pack in the face the next time he sees them without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment.

Stiles is the one who _should_ be embarrassed, but Derek is pretty sure he’s constitutionally incapable of it.

“Hear me out,” Stiles continues, following him into the loft. Derek doesn’t look at him, but he can tell that Stiles is waving his hands the way he does when he’s had an idea he’s convinced is brilliant, like he can persuade everyone else to go along with it by sheer force of enthusiasm.

Which, for the record, is not happening. Not in this case. Derek grabs a shirt from the top of the pile on unfolded laundry next to his bed and pulls it on. “No.”

“No, you won’t hear me out, or no, you won’t have sex with me?”

“Both.”

“Why not?” Stiles asks, derailed. He doesn’t sound hurt, or even particularly offended, or at all like the flat-out rejection was unexpected. Stiles is used to rejection, thick-skinned enough that he usually just treats it as the first step in the negotiation process. “I mean, I’m not hideous, I had a shower this morning--yes, I grant you, you don’t really like me and I am _incredibly_ annoying, but that’s okay because we don’t need to date! We just need to have sex. One time. So I don’t die. I’m pretty sure you don’t actually want me to _die._ ” He pulls a face. “Ugh, never mind, that sounds really manipulative and pushy when I put it like that, doesn’t it? I should hire a prostitute. How does one go about hiring a prostitute, anyway? I feel like I should probably know this, given that my dad is the sheriff, but…”

“Jesus Christ,” Derek mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s illegal, for one thing.”

“Prostitution? Well, yeah, but only because we live in a neo-Puritan wasteland run by hypocritical assholes who think that outlawing something is the best way to make it… oh, you meant you _._ I mean, I guess? Technically?”

“I’m twenty-four,” Derek informs him tiredly, like there’s any way that Stiles isn’t already aware of this. “You’re seventeen. There’s no ‘technically’ about it.”

“ _Technically_ ,” Stiles says, “statutory rape laws exist to protect minors from predatory adults. So, not really applicable here, for a variety of reasons.”

“They really are. You’re a minor, I’m an adult, it’s a felony, end of story. Also, I could be straight.”

“You _could_ be,” Stiles agrees, with pointed emphasis. “Are you?”

Derek sighs again. “I’m making coffee,” he says, instead of answering. He should have known better than to engage. It’s really too goddamn early for this. “And you’re leaving.”

Stiles does not leave. Stiles follows him into the kitchen instead, because he clearly has no sense of self-preservation at all. It’s not like Derek was unaware of that fact, exactly, but it’s kind of different to be confronted with it at seven in the morning, after Stiles has just bluntly propositioned him _._

It’s tempting to throw him out the window just to make a point. Very tempting. If they weren’t on the third floor he might even do it. He misses the days when the threat alone would be enough to get Stiles to back down.

“So is that the only reason—” Stiles pauses, puts his hands up before Derek can even muster a glare. “I’m not trying to talk you into it anymore. I’ve just smacked myself in the face with how creepy the request is, I’ll figure something else out, don’t worry about it. I’m just curious. Is it just because it’s a felony? Because you’ve committed like half a dozen felonies in my presence since I’ve known you, several of them involving grievous bodily harm, so this kind of seems like a weird place to draw the line.”

“You think rape is a weird place to draw the line?” Derek asks flatly. Stiles’ wince is less gratifying than he thought it would be.

“Statutory rape,” he says, and then, off of Derek’s look, “ _yes_ , the distinction matters, Jesus Christ. Why are we even having this conversation?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Derek says, and busies himself with the coffee maker.

“Why do you even drink coffee?” Stiles asks after the percolator starts up, filling the air with hissing steam and the warm smell of coffee. He hops up onto the counter and kicks his feet against the cabinets. “Scott can’t stand the smell these days. And it’s not like the caffeine works on you, right?”

“College,” Derek says, although the truth is, there were enough human members of the Hale pack that there was always a pot on in the morning when he was a kid, and the smell of it soothes him. He’s not telling Stiles that, though. “Easier to blend in. It got to be a habit. And I thought you were leaving.”

“You went to college? Really?”

“Is it really that surprising?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Stiles picks up a coffee mug, turns it around in his hands, then set it back down. Rubs his fingers over the countertop, crinkles the crumpled takeout bags that Cora keeps bringing home from the Indian place downtown. The pungent smell of curry actually does bother Derek, but she loves it, so he puts up with it.

Stiles spins around an arrowhead, drags his finger through a glittering spill of salt. The motions are quick, distracting. It’s not that Stiles is fidgeting, exactly. He’s always like this. The constant, frenetic motion is as much a part of him as his skin. It doesn’t usually get on Derek's nerves like this.

He’s not usually this focused on Stiles.

“You might want to consider hiring a housekeeper,” Stiles remarks, inspecting the salt crystals still clinging to the pad of one long finger. “Because I’m pretty sure you guys can afford it, and it’s actually kind of disgusting how you live.”

“With lines like that, it’s hard to believe you’re still a virgin,” Derek says dryly.

“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but it’s mild.

Derek gives him a look. “No.”

“Funny. Anyway, I told you, this isn’t a seduction anymore.”

“It didn’t seem all that much like a seduction to begin with.”

“Cruel.” Stiles pats a hand over his heart. “That was just unnecessarily cruel. Hey, can I have some coffee?”

“If I say yes, will you leave?”

“Potentially,” Stiles says, grinning. “Depends on how good the coffee is. Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one?” Derek asks, turning back to the coffee maker as it belches out a cloud of coffee-scented steam, the carafe nearly full. It’s a cheap machine, something he grabbed at a yard sale in a fit of nostalgia, but the grounds are good quality. Cora likes to give him a hard time about that, since half the time he doesn’t even drink it, but it’s not like he can’t afford it.

“The one about whether you’re not going to sleep with me because it’s illegal, or because you find me physically repulsive.”

Derek looks back at him. He’s still perched on the counter, sneakered feet kicking an erratic rhythm against the cabinets. His hair is damp, soft without any product in it, and the early sunlight traces the sharp curve of his cheekbone, lending a flare of gold to his light brown eyes as he glances up at Derek, then away. His long fingers rattle on the countertop, then still. There’s something anxious in his expression, imperfectly concealed; a stutter in his heartbeat, like the latter possibility actually concerns him.

Jesus Christ. He genuinely has no idea.

“Those are my only two options?” Derek asks finally, turning back to the coffee maker. He opens the cabinet and takes out a mug, hesitates, then grabs another. “And I don’t find you repulsive. Stop fishing for compliments.”

Stiles laughs, sounding startled. “I think that might actually be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Thanks, man. The feeling is mutual.”

Derek shakes his head, pours both cups full, and crosses back over to the counter to set one next to Stiles. The ugly one, lumpy and garish and decorated with the splashy logo of a marina on the other side of the state. “Here. Drink that, then leave. I have things to do today.”

“Balboa Yacht Basin, huh?” Stiles asks, inspecting the logo. “Do you actually have a yacht? Because that would be awesome.”

“No,” Derek says. “I have no idea where that came from.”

“Too bad. Although maybe having a bunch of werewolves trapped on a boat in the open ocean would be a bad idea. Can werewolves swim?”

“No, our fur gets waterlogged.” Derek rolls his eyes. “Of course we can swim. Better than you can.”

“Bold words for a dude who’s only alive today because I treaded water with his heavy ass for literally hours. Or did you forget that?”

“No,” Derek says. “Did I ever thank you?”

“No. Are you going to?”

Derek shakes his head, realizes belatedly that he’s smiling. He takes a hasty sip of his coffee to hide it, and when he looks up, Stiles is watching him with a worryingly thoughtful expression. “What?”

“So,” Stiles says slowly. “If I _was_ eighteen…”

“Don’t,” Derek says, but it’s not as sharp as it probably should be. Stiles can probably hear that--can definitely hear the unspoken answer there, because he wraps both hands around his coffee cup, and ducks his head, and smiles.


End file.
